


beach house living

by thepalebluedot



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Gen, M/M, beach lifeguard au, casual drug and alcohol use, eventual bitty/jack
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:27:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26257882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepalebluedot/pseuds/thepalebluedot
Summary: The Zimmermanns own a beach house. Jack isn't sure why, given the fact that it's been rented out every summer since he was born. The current tenants are a bunch of kids around his age, apparently, and Bob thinks it'll be good for him to take some time away. Jack can't think of a good enough excuse to get out of it.
Comments: 12
Kudos: 22





	beach house living

**Author's Note:**

> yeehaw

Jack reads the wooden numbers nailed up next to the door, then double checks the address in his phone. He pockets his phone and picks up his duffel. 

He takes a deep breath and knocks on the door. 

The girl who opens the door is about a foot shorter than him. She’s also wearing a red sweatshirt that’s probably twice her size, making her look even smaller. 

All of that still doesn’t make it okay for Jack to blurt out, “Aren’t you too short to be a lifeguard?” 

_What the fuck Zimmermann_ , he thinks. 

She raises an eyebrow. “Aren’t you too tall to be a douchebag?”

Yeah, he deserves that. At least she didn’t slam the door in his face. 

“Sorry. I-I deserved that. I didn’t mean-I just, uh. Sorry.”

“There aren’t any height restrictions,” she says flatly. “It’s not an amusement park.” 

Jack wants to die, “I’m sorry.” 

She stares at him for a very, very long moment, sizing him up. 

Jack wants to disappear. He’s considering apologizing again and then just leaving and never coming back when she says, “I’m not a lifeguard. But still, not cool dude.” 

“I’m sorry, I don’t know why I said that.” 

“It’s whatever.” 

Jack doesn’t know what else to say and figures he should probably just keep his mouth shut. The cab he took here is probably already gone. He could walk a block and call another one, head right back to the airport. When’s the next flight back to Canada? Fuck, he might have to get a hotel room for the night. 

“Tell you what,” she says, apparently taking pity on him. “How about we start over. I’m gonna close the door, wait ten seconds, and when I open it again you’ll say something polite and respectful, and we can move on from there.” 

She doesn’t wait for a response before the door is closed, and Jack is left staring at it blankly. He’s still staring when it opens again. He’s silent for a beat too long. She raises her eyebrows.

“I’m Jack,” he manages. “Uh, Zimmermann.”

“Nice to meet you, Jack.” She holds out her hand for him to shake. “I’m Lardo.”

He shakes her hand. “Uh, my dad said you’d be expecting me.” 

She nods. “We are. Come on in.” 

She steps aside to let him in, “Everyone’s at work except me and Shitty. We have off today.” 

“Okay,” Jack says, unsure of whether he should ask if Shitty is a person or if that would be rude. 

“Shitty’s the only one with his own room, so you’ll be bunking with him. Hope that’s okay.” 

So Shitty is, in fact, a person. Who he has to share a room with. Okay. 

“Your dad mentioned that, right?” Lardo says, and Jack hopes to fuck he didn’t just look as panicked as he felt, because no, his father most certainly did not mention that. 

“Uh, yeah, he did.” 

Lardo lets it go. “Cool.”

“You guys are in the downstairs bedroom, so you have your own bathroom. It’s right across the hall,” she says, stopping in front of what is apparently his and Shitty’s room and pointing at the closed door across from it. “You can put your stuff in here, get settled in. He cleared out closet space and shit. We’ll be in the den, so just yell if you need anything.” 

“Okay. Thanks.” 

“No problem. Welcome to the Haus.”

She heads off down the hall, so he steps inside the room and closes the door, dropping his duffel on the ground. 

He sighs. That could’ve gone better. 

Too late now. 

He looks around the room, taking in the place he’ll be spending the next few months in. Two twin beds, two nightstands, a big armchair, a dresser, and a closet. The room decor is beach themed, soft blues and yellows, seashells on the lamp stand. It’s nice, if somewhat cheesy. 

One half of the room is clearly lived in, bed unmade, a closed laptop on the floor next to it, a phone charger plugged in next to the nightstand. Jack picks up his duffel and sets it at the foot of the other bed, then sits down and stares at the wall, trying not to panic. 

It’s just the first day. The first _hour_. Bad start, sure, but Lardo was willing to give him a second chance, which is a good sign, and he didn’t have to meet a bunch of people at once, which he hates, so that’s good too. Shitty’s side of the room is relatively clean and he apparently made space for him in the closet, which he didn’t have to do. His dad said they were nice, kinda weird, but good people. Since one of them apparently goes by Shitty, Jack believes the weird part, but Lardo seems nice enough, considering the first words out of his mouth made him sound like a jackass. 

It’s day one. He’ll be fine. And if he’s not, at least he’ll have the room to himself during the day while Shitty is at work. Maybe even the house to himself when everyone is at work. 

It’ll be fine. 

There’s a knock on the door.

“Uh, come in,” Jack says. 

The guy who opens the door has a mustache that’s actually pretty impressive and is wearing nothing but boxers that have cartoon mustaches on them. 

“Hey man,” he says, leaning against the doorframe. “I’m Shitty.” 

“Jack.”

“Nice to meet you. Welcome to our crib. Well, I guess it’s your dad’s crib, so yours by association. Welcome to your crib.” 

Jack blinks at him. “Thanks?” 

Shitty grins. “I’m your roomie, if you didn’t already know. I’ll keep my shit on my side and I don’t snore, to my knowledge. Bathroom is across the hall. Left half of the closet is yours, so are the top two drawers of the dresser. You want a sandwich?” 

“Um, sure.” 

“Cool. All we have right now is turkey, we need to go on a grocery run. Figured we’d wait until you got here so you could go with us and get whatever shit you need. Sound good?”

“Yeah, uh, thanks. You didn’t have to.” 

“No problem, brah.” He pushes off the door frame and heads down the hall towards what must be the kitchen. Jack takes that as his cue to follow. 

The kitchen is nice, cream colored cabinets and warm toned marble counters. It has an open floor plan, flowing into the den where Lardo is lying on a comfortable looking, squashy blue couch. The wall opposite the hall has tall windows and french doors that lead out to a deck, and Jack can see wicker furniture and a grill. The view is of the beach, colorful umbrellas and the ocean. 

“Sup,” Lardo nods at him. He nods back. 

“Beach closes at 5,” Shitty says, taking ingredients out of the fridge. “Well, it doesn’t technically close, people can still be on it, but the lifeguards leave at 5. So everyone will be home at, like, 5:30? 5:45? Grocery store, then dinner, that’s the plan for the night.”

“We’re all usually out of here by nine in the mornings, so you’ll have the Haus to yourself a lot of the time,” Lardo says from the couch. “There’s beach shit in the shed for you, and an umbrella and some chairs.”

“Oh yeah, towels are important. Did you bring any?” Shitty says. 

What. “No?”

“Beach towels,” Lardo clarifies. 

“Oh. No.” 

“All good dude you can just borrow ours. Do you want mustard?” 

“That’s okay, I can just buy one,” Jack says. “And no thank you. And I can make my own sandwich.” 

Shitty shrugs. “Whatever works. Hella places sell towels around here, but bigger and thicker is better.” 

“That’s what she said,” Lardo grins. 

Shitty points at her with the butter knife he’s using to spread mustard on the bread. “She did say that. But we mustn't neglect skinny penis.” 

Lardo nods wisely. “We mustn't. It is ya boy.”

Shitty looks back over at Jack. “You want tomatoes?” 

“Yeah. I can make my own though, really.”

Shitty waves the knife around dismissively. “I’m already cutting them for me, it’s no problemo.” 

“If you’re sure.” 

“All good, my man. We’re out of lettuce, but we do have spinach?” 

“Sure.” 

“Swiss or cheddar?”

“Swiss is fine.” 

“Right on. So Lards,” Shitty turns his attention back towards the couch. “It’s the one with Kristen Bell in it, and Danny DeVito is there and he sells sausages.” 

“I swear to god you’re making this up.” 

“Cross my heart, Lards. It’s actually really good as rom coms go. And Kristen Bell is a fucking delight.” 

“I do love Kristen Bell.” 

“Who doesn’t?” Shitty says, and Jack thinks, _me_ , because he has no idea who that is or what is going on or why they have separate towels for beaches. But they’re no longer focused on him, which is a relief. 

Shitty slides a plate with Jack’s sandwich on it across the counter to him without breaking the conversation. Jack tries to keep up, is fairly certain they’re still talking about rom coms, but nothing they say sounds familiar. Eventually, he gives up and focuses on eating. He finishes his sandwich, rinses his plate and loads it in the dishwasher, then silently excuses himself. 

.

He’s back in his and Shitty’s room hanging his clothes up in his half of the closet when he hears a loud bang, followed by footsteps and a general commotion. 

“Holster,” someone says, “How many times have I said quit that, you’re going to dent the wall.” 

“Dex can fix it!”

“Fuck you, you can fix it yourself.”

The voices continue, along with what sounds like footsteps going up the stairs and another loud slam that Jack assumes is the front door being closed. A few minutes later after the noise dies down, someone knocks on the bedroom door, and it starts to open before he can answer. 

It’s Shitty, saying, “It’s me, hope you’re not naked.” He catches sight of Jack by the closet and grins. “Nice, yeah, make yourself at home.” 

Jack stares at him. “What if I had been naked?” 

Shitty laughs. “Then I would close my eyes out of respect for you and your beautiful body. We’re leaving in five to grocery shop, just a heads up.” He starts pulling clothes out of the dresser, so Jack turns back to the closet and hangs up another shirt to give him privacy.

“You ready?” Shitty says behind him. Jack hangs up another shirt before turning around. He takes a moment to take it in. Shitty is wearing cutoff jean shorts and a neon pink tank top that’s so bright it almost hurts to look at. It reads, “life’s a beach” in big black block letters. 

Jack remembers Shitty asked a question. “Yeah, let me get my wallet.”

Shitty heads for the door. “Pretty much everyone is in the den, I’ll introduce you before we leave.” 

Jack grabs his wallet from the night stand and follows him into the hall. He wonders how many people actually live here and if his father even knows. Bob had said it was a four bedroom house but not much else. 

In retrospect, Jack should’ve asked more questions.

Again, too late now. 

Shitty announces their arrival by cupping his hands around his mouth as a megaphone and screaming, “Silence!” 

The chatter dies down, and everyone in the room turns to look at them. 

Jack thinks, _why._

“This is our new roomie Jack Zimmermann,” Shitty says, gesturing at him. 

Jack tries not to cower behind him. He doesn’t know if they follow sports, or hockey, or if they know who exactly their landlord is, but no one seems to react to his name. Small miracles. 

“You met Lardo,” Shitty says, pointing. She nods at Jack. 

“That’s Ransom,” he points to a tall, dark skinned guy standing by Lardo, who is sitting on the kitchen counter. Ransom smiles at him. “That’s Chowder and Bitty,” he points to an Asian kid in a sharks tank top - so at least one person in this house follows hockey, fucking hell - who gives him a little wave, and a shorter, blond, white boy with freckles and a tan, who smiles brightly. 

“That tall bastard is Holster,” Shitty points to another blond white boy next to Bitty. Holster grins and nods.“And those two are Nursey and Dex,” he gestures to the brown skinned guy with a tattoo circling his bicep and a third white guy with freckles and bright orange hair. 

_Why does no one have a normal name_ , Jack thinks. 

“Hi,” he says lamely. “I’m Jack.”

“Welcome, dude,” Nursey says. 

“Alright,” Shitty claps. “Anyone who wants to go to the store, up and at ‘em.” 

Jack has just enough time to hope it isn’t a long drive and that they won’t ask him about himself during it before five of them pile into a gold Subaru parked in the driveway. Shitty has the keys and Bitty calls shotgun, so Jack crams in the back with Ransom and Dex. He gets the middle seat, which Dex apologizes for. 

“Sorry we bitch seated you,” he says with a smile. “But since Bitty got shotty, you are the shortest.” 

Jack shrugs, or tries to. “It’s fine.” 

Shitty backs out of the driveway while Ransom and Bitty play rock-paper-scissors for the aux cord. Bitty wins it, plugs in his phone and starts playing pop music Jack doesn’t recognize. 

“Yo, Shits, guess what happened today,” Ransom says. 

Up front, Bitty twists around to face the backseat and rolls his eyes. “Are you going to tell everyone this, Rans?”

“Uh, yeah. I fucking am,” Ransom scoffs. Bitty rolls his eyes again and flashes a grin in Jack’s direction. 

“So this lady comes up to my chair, right. Total white suburban mom vibes, visor and, like, Ray Bans or Tiffany shades or whatever.”

“Oh boy,” Shitty says.

“Oh yes,” Ransom says. “So I’m like, okay, benefit of the doubt, maybe she has a reasonable question about riptides or our hours or sunscreen, I don’t know.”

To Jack’s right, Dex sighs. 

“But no,” Ransom continues. That would be too much to hope for. Instead, this woman--Shits. Guess what this woman asks me.”

“I cannot even begin to guess.” 

“She asks if it’s safe to go in the ocean even if you can’t swim.” 

“Bro,” Shitty says. 

“ _I_ _know_ ,” Ransom says. 

“Some fucking people,” Dex says. 

Bitty, still facing the backseat, rolls his eyes again. Jack snorts, which earns him a sideways glance and a grin from Ransom. 

“So I’m up there, leaning down to hear her better, and she says that, and for a sec I just fucking stare at her like I’m the idiot. Processing that. Thinking about how to phrase ‘no the fuck you can’t’ nicely. And then I go, ‘No, ma’am, I’m sorry, but it’s not safe to swim unless you know how to effectively stay afloat.’ And then she says, ‘I don’t mean swimming, I just mean going in the water.’”

Jack frowns, and Dex sighs again, shaking his head. 

Up front, Shitty just says, “What.” 

“Right? So I ask, ‘What do you mean by ‘just going in the water?’ and she fucking gives me this look, like I’m the dumbass. And she says ‘I mean just the shallow part, where the waves crash.’ And I try my very hardest not to look up at the sky and ask the gods for help. And I say, ‘I’m very sorry ma’am, but that’s also dangerous due to the currents. Rip tides can be very strong.’ Which like, okay, she might not be taken out by a riptide, but assuming she has kids and shit and no athletic ability herself, she shouldn’t chance it if she can’t even tread water.”

“Lot of assumptions you’re making there, Ransy babe,” Shitty warns. 

“I know, I know. But in terms of safety, I’m trying to play it safe, and she’s the one who told me she can’t fucking swim.” 

“Hm,” Shitty says. “Acceptable. Carry on.” 

“So she says, ‘But what about just the shallow part? Where the waves come up and go away?’ And yeah, okay, she’d be fine above the tide, but again, safety and liability and whatnot. I don’t want it to be on me if she pulls some shit. So I tell her again, no, it isn’t safe. And I fucking shit you not, this lady says, ‘Are you sure? Is there someone else I can speak to?’ This bitch really asked if she could speak to a manager. On the fucking beach.”

Up front, Shitty is laughing. Bitty is grinning and shaking his head. Dex snorts, and Jack finds himself smiling, because _what_. 

“So I fucking walkie beach patrol, and we wait five minutes for Ollie to roll up, and he tells her the same exact fucking thing, and she frowns and gets all huffy and has the _audacity_ to ask us if we’re sure. Like, yeah, bitch, we’re pretty fucking sure. If you’d dug around in your brain a little bit for your common sense maybe you wouldn’t be so mad about it. Jesus Christ.” 

Shitty opens the front door, and Jack realizes they’ve arrived and parked. 

“What’d she do after that?” Shitty asks before getting out of the car.

Ransom opens the door and climbs out, saying, “Well, apparently, she walked to the other lifeguard stand and asked them the same fucking thing.” 

Jack climbs out after Ransom, finds himself saying, “You’re kidding.” 

“Bro, I wish,” Ransom says. “That lifeguard, I think it was April, also had to radio beach patrol, so Ollie went over there to check it out and had to call someone else from beach patrol ‘cause this bitch still didn’t like our answer. Ollie came back and told me about it, ‘cause he’s a bro.” 

“Ollie just loves to gossip,” Bitty says. 

“I said what I said. Guy’s a bro.” 

“I always get him confused with Wicks,” Dex says. 

Bitty grabs a cart from the front of the store. The automatic doors slide open, and they get blasted with air conditioning, which is a relief to Jack. Everyone splits up pretty much immediately, so Jack just trails behind Bitty because he has the cart and Jack has nobody’s phone number if he gets lost. 

Bitty notices Jack following him and flashes another smile. “Guess you’re with me! We’re doing the shopping for the next week or so. Or so we say. Someone always ends up going again during the week for snacks or butter or because they’re suddenly inspired by the food network.”

Jack nods, and Bitty steers them into the fridge aisle. 

“It gets a bit chaotic just because there’s so many of us. But we have a system now, of sorts, Shitty and Lardo shop for each other, Ransom and Holster shop for each other, lord knows they know each other well enough, and Dex or Chowder shops for the other and Nursey. Nursey, bless his heart, always forgets something.” 

It’s around this point that Jack notices Bitty has a southern accent. He also notices that Bitty has dumped about 10 packages of butter in the cart. 

He decides not to ask. 

“I shop for just me, myself, and I, but I also usually end up buying the most. Sometimes the other boys will make a store run for me though, which is nice of them, but they get some of the goods, so it balances out,” Bitty says. He’s talking really quickly. Jack has no idea what that last bit is supposed to mean. 

Bitty puts two cartons of eggs in the cart. Jack’s brain processes the “I shop for me statement” and he adds another carton for himself. 

“All the people that shop for each other have a texting system worked out, I believe. There are so many group chats, I can’t keep track. I know Chowder, Nursey, and Dex have one, which I think is how they cover everything grocery shopping. There’s a whiteboard on the fridge we add to, but it isn’t very consistent. Feel free to add anything you need to it, though, I always take a picture of it before we shop! Is there anything else you need in this aisle, Jack?”

“Oh, uh, no.” 

Bitty pushes the cart onwards, talking as they go. Jack isn’t really following, but Bitty doesn’t seem to be expecting answers, so Jack nods and smiles and adds things to the cart and eventually, Shitty reappears with his own basket full of groceries and he and Bitty settle into a comfortable sounding banter. 

Ransom and Dex find them near the checkout lanes, adding their groceries to the cart. 

The seating arrangement is the same for the ride back, except Ransom gets to play the music this time. He plays different pop music that Jack still doesn’t really recognize, but everyone - save Jack and Dex - is singing along. 

Jack helps unload the groceries. He’s about to escape back to his room when Holster says, “Hey, Jack, we’re grilling tonight, do you want chicken or a burger?” 

“Oh. Chicken is fine.” 

“Nice. We’ll start screaming when it’s ready.” 

Jack blinks at him.

“Or we can just come get you.”

“Oh. Uh, thanks.” Jack takes it for the dismissal that it is and heads back to his room. He finishes unpacking, does some sit ups in an attempt to get rid of nervous energy, and ends up lying in bed staring at the blank Safari tab on his phone. He opens his messages instead, lets his parents know he’s settled in. There’s a text from his therapist letting him know they can do phone sessions. He ignores it for now. 

There are no texts from Kent. Which makes sense. There haven’t been since they fought on the phone a few days after Jack got out of rehab.

Jack can’t decide whether or not he actually wants to hear from him. Can’t decide if he misses him or if he just misses hockey. 

A knock on the door stops that train of thought. 

“Food,” someone says. 

“Thanks,” Jack calls. 

Dinner is burgers, chicken, and grilled vegetables. It’s surprisingly good, better than Jack expected from a bunch of 20 somethings. They crowd around the glass dining table on the porch and it’s loud and cheerful, everyone talking over each other and laughing. He declines the offer of beer, but not everyone is drinking, so he doesn’t feel like the odd man out. He doesn’t say much, but he’s sandwiched between Holster and Shitty, the latter occasionally elbowing him and grinning. They’re both loud and talkative, so he pretends he can’t get a word in and smiles whenever someone catches his eye.

At some point, Shitty and Holster are arguing over his head, and Jack catches Bitty looking at him. Bitty blushes, but offers a sympathetic smile and shakes his head. He says something that Jack doesn’t quite catch, so he leans forward and taps his ear. 

Bitty meets him halfway. “These boys,” he repeats, and he sounds incredibly fond. 

Jack goes to bed around ten. He lies awake for longer than he’d like to admit, but still falls asleep before Shitty returns to the room. 

. 

During his first two weeks in South Jersey, he falls into a routine.

He wakes up at six and goes for a run on the beach. After that, he makes breakfast for himself. Then, he hides in his room while everyone else gets ready for work, not wanting to disrupt their morning routines. During the day while everyone is gone, he hangs around the house. He works out, he reads, and he watches the documentaries his dad sends him. He starts watching Breaking Bad on his mom’s suggestion. He considers watching some of the trashy movies Kent always told him to watch. 

He decides he isn’t that desperate. 

The house fills up again in the evenings. Some nights, Jack gets roped into hanging out in the den or on the deck, 

Tonight, they’re on the deck. It’s a Saturday, and Jack is pretty sure most of them have work tomorrow, but they’ve dragged a cheap plastic table out and are playing beer pong on it. 

Right now, Chowder and Bitty are losing miserably to Shitty and Lardo. 

“Hey, Jack,” Shitty calls out. “Celeb shot!” 

“Oh, no,” Jack says. “I’m not very good.” 

“Neither are they!” Shitty gestures at Chowder and Bitty.

“Hey!” Chowder says.

“We’re _decent_ ,” Bitty argues. 

“C’mon, Jackary, we’re up by like five! It won’t matter if you miss!”

“It’s really okay,” he insists.

“Practice makes perfect,” Shitty says, and Jack gets the feeling he won’t give up, so he sighs and heaves himself out of his chair. Might as well just get it over with. 

Lardo goes before him and sinks it easily. Jack lines up his shot, then hesitates, adjusts, hesitates, realizes this is probably taking him too long, hesitates some more anyways, then throws it. 

It doesn’t go in. But it does bounce off the rim of one of the cups, so it could be worse. 

Shitty claps him on the shoulder, and he jumps a bit, not expecting it. 

“So fucking close, dude, couldn’t have done it better myself.”

Jack goes back to his seat, and Bitty makes the next shot. Ransom and Holster wolf whistle at him, and they forget all about what just happened. Jack hopes. 

It occurs to him that he hasn’t played pong since right after the Memorial Cup, and he hasn’t ever played without Kent as his partner. He wonders if it should feel like more of a betrayal. 

As the night winds down, Jack finds himself on one of the cushioned wicker chairs around the fire pit. There’s no actual fire going, but Lardo, Shitty, and Holster are sharing a joint that Jack declines when they offer it to him. 

It’s nice of them to offer. 

Holster and Lardo head to bed. Jack should, too, it’s past his usual bedtime. But it’s a nice night, full moon reflecting off the water. Lardo had knocked on his bedroom door and told him he should join them, and he’d been avoiding it too many times already to say no. 

“So,” Shitty says after a few minutes of silence. “How was your day.” 

Jack looks at him blankly for a beat too long. 

“Um, it was good?” he says. 

Shitty laughs. “Good to hear. Thanks for hanging, I know we can be kind of a lot. We see far too much of each other. You settling in okay and all?” 

“Yeah,” Jack says. “It’s been nice.” 

“How you like the beach?”

Ah. Fuck. 

The thing is, Jack hasn’t actually been to the beach yet outside of running on it in the mornings. He tracked down the shed where Lardo said the beach chairs were. It’s under the deck but has a lock on it that he doesn’t know the combination for, and he hasn’t bought his own beach towels yet, not to mention he only owns one bathing suit that barely fits. 

He’s also never actually been to the beach before and doesn’t know the etiquette. 

He’s Canadian. Sue him. 

“It’s nice in the morning. I run.” 

“Oh shit, really? I don’t think we’ve seen you out there.” 

“It’s usually pretty early.”

“That’s cool, good for you man. I bet you see some sick sunrises.” 

“Yeah.” 

“It gets kinda crowded during the day, but if you pick a spot and mind your business it isn’t too bad,” Shitty says, and Jack thinks, _well, fuck_ , he can’t avoid it forever. 

“I, uh, actually. Wanted to go,” he lies, “But kept forgetting to ask for the code to the storage closet.”

“Oh, man, if that ain’t me,” Shitty grins. “I’ll ask Lardo for it. Or Bitty. It’s written down somewhere. Probably.” 

“Cool, thanks.” 

“So, like, you can tell me to fuck off, but tell me about your dad,” Shitty says, and Jack thinks, _fuck_. “I want the deets on Bob,” he continues. 

“Um. What do you want to know?”

“Well, Bitty wants to know his favorite pie, but I want to know his favorite color, movie, beer, and also ask for his hand in marriage, probably.”

What. “What.”

“Brah, your dad is the nicest landlord I’ve ever had. The man cares. Landlords _never_ care. Also, he’s a very attractive man.”

“Uh, thanks?”

“I mean you look a lot like him, so you’re welcome. So tell me, does your dad smoke weed? I want to smoke the man out, would he be opposed?”

“I don’t know,” Jack says, confused. 

“I bet he was a riot in college.”

“He didn’t go to college.”

“Good for him, then. Also he talks about you and your mom a lot, it’s cute as shit.”

“Oh. Really?” 

“Yeah. Always my wife this, my wife that. Says you play some sick ass hockey.”

“Oh. Yeah.” 

“That’s cool, man, I know Chowder’s fuckin obsessed with his team in Cali, you should talk to him about it, give Nursey and Dex a break.” 

Jack will definitely not be doing that. “Maybe.” 

“I’d ask you about it, but I know fuck-all about hockey.” Thank god for small miracles. “Not super into sports, to be honest, they’re fun to play and shit but the American obsession with professional sports and professional athletes is wack. A lot to unpack there, toxic masculinity and violent behavior that everyone just let’s slide. The idolization is insane. And it promotes unrealistic body and health standards.” 

Shitty isn’t wrong, and Jack also has a thing or two to say about professional sports, knowing the industry like he does. But it seems a little hypocritical, considering the only real goal in life he has right now is to play professional hockey, so he just says, “Yeah, it’s fucked.” 

Shitty nods wisely. “Super fucked.” 

Jack calls it a night pretty soon after that. 

Lardo gave Jack her and Shitty’s numbers for emergencies, and the next morning she texts him the combination. She also says to let her know where he sets up so she can stop by and say hi, and Jack knows he can’t avoid it any longer. 

Jack has never been to the beach before. He prefers the ice. And snow. And the mountains. 

He starts sweating the moment he steps outside, then after about three steps he turns around and heads back inside to grab sandals because the sand is really fucking hot. 

He picks a spot behind the lifeguard chair, pretty far back from the water because there are less people there and sets up his chair. He tries to get comfortable, even though his feet kind of feel like they’re burning and he’s sweating like he just played three shifts in a row. He just sits there for a few minutes, taking everything in, watching the groups of people around him. He’s the only one by himself, as far as he can tell. There seems to be a lot of families. 

He thinks of his family and wonders why his father bought a beach house only to rent it out and never use it. 

Eventually, he gets bored of people-watching. He texts Lardo and pulls out his book.

Lardo shows up after a few hours, riding on a red four wheeler. 

“Sup, dude,” she says, nodding at him. She drags a towel out of some crevice of the vehicle and plops down on it in the sand next to his chair. “How goes it?” 

Jack shrugs. “It goes.” 

She grins. “It sure fucking does, doesn’t it.” 

They spend a few minutes in silence, Jack biting his lip and reaching for something to say. 

“Hey,” he says. “I’m really sorry about, uh, our first interaction. That was really rude of me, and I’m sorry.” 

She shrugs. “It’s fine. It was a dick move, don’t get me wrong, but, like, at least you apologized, acknowledge the fact that it was a dick move. Most people don’t do that.”

“Still. I’m sorry.” 

She waves a hand dismissively. “All’s forgiven. We’re cool.”

“Okay.” 

“How you liking the place so far?”

“It’s nice. I like all the houses.”

“Yeah, they’re cute. Very picturesque.” 

“Yeah.” 

“So, uh, you talk to your parents much?”

Jack frowns. “Yeah, often enough. I text them.” 

“You should call them or something. Your dad texted me asking if you were all right, settled in and shit.” 

Jack could go for a medical emergency requiring Lardo’s attention right now. Or a tsunami. Why is his father like this. 

“Oh. I’m sorry about that too, I’ll call him.” Then, because he’s curious, “Does he text you often?”

“What? Oh, no, almost never. He just has my number ‘cause me and Shitty are his main points of contact for rent and shit. Ransom and Holster help behind the scenes with accounting and keeping track of shit, but Shits and I make the payments and negotiate the lease and whatnot.” 

“Oh. Okay. Yeah, I guess I should call them.” 

“It’s nice that he cares,” she says. 

Jack’s parents love him and support him and want him to be happy, he’s never doubted that. It’s just. They’ve become much more overbearing since the overdose. He gets it; he knows they blame themselves. They shouldn’t, which he’s told them, but it hasn’t stopped them from doing so. They’re in therapy, just like he is. He should tell his therapist to tell their therapist - therapists? - not to blame themselves, if they haven't already. 

He gets why they’re worried, but he’s fine, really. 

He’ll call his dad tomorrow. 

“Yeah,” Jack says belatedly.

“Did you put on sunscreen, by the way? You’re looking kind of red.”

 _Fuck_. 

“Oh. Shit. Um, I don’t think I have any.” 

She snorts. “Bro, you’re living at the beach.”

And she has a point, but still. “I’m Canadian,” he deadpans. 

She laughs. “What, they don’t have the sun in Canada?”

That is also an excellent point. “You got me there.” 

She laughs again. “I’d head in, if I were you, then. You can use ours, we have a whole stash in the upstairs bathroom closet. Just buy us a few bottles next time you go shopping.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

“We also have aloe. It’s with the sunscreen stash.”

“What?”

“Aloe.”

“Um. what’s that.” 

“Damn, they really don’t have the sun up there in Canada. It’s for sunburn. It’s goo from a plant that soothes the pain.” 

“Oh. Thanks.”

“No problem, bro.” She stands up and shakes out her towel. “I’m going to head out, you should put on some sunscreen. Or use the umbrella.”

“Oh. Yeah. I didn’t know how to set it up.”

“Shit, that makes sense. Our bad. We can show you tonight.”

“Thanks.”

“See you later.” She hops back on the four wheeler and drives off. Jack packs up his stuff and heads back to the house, where he finds out he is, in fact, very sunburnt on his arms and the front of his legs. Thank god he’d been wearing a shirt. 

He takes a cold shower and smothers aloe on his arms and legs. It smells kind of weird but good, fresh.

At dinner, everyone ribs on him for getting burnt. He doesn’t use the Canadian excuse this time, but Lardo informs everyone that it’s really Bob’s fault for never teaching his child about the essentialness of sunscreen.

That’s when Holster says, “He’s Bad Bob, of course he doesn’t know anything about sunscreen, dudes a Canadian who played an indoor sport for a living.” 

And that’s when Jack’s chest tightens and everything gets far away, because so far he’d be under the impression that nobody knew about his dad, except for maybe Chowder, but they clearly know enough to know he was a professional hockey player, and they know that Jack is his son, who plays hockey, and they must--they must know. About everything, about his overdose, about rehab, about the draft that never was. He thought he was safe, had a clean slate, of sorts, with people who had no preconceived notions of him. He can’t breathe. Fuck it all to hell. 

Thank god it’s not a formal Haus dinner, as they call it, just everyone taking shifts in the kitchen and on the couch throwing together whatever food or leftovers they have. It makes it easier for Jack to excuse himself, saying he’ll be back and hoping his smile doesn’t look too forced. He goes to the bathroom, but bracing himself against the counter takes him back to the night he overdosed and suddenly everything is blurry and cold like it was then, except it can’t be, because he’s sober, he remembers, and stumbles across the hall to the bedroom. 

It’s better there, less blurry, but he still _can’t breathe_ even though he’s trying to do his breathing exercises, and they know, they know, they know what a fuckup he is, which he isn't, he reminds himself, he just was under a lot of pressure and made a mistake, but isn’t he, though? Isn’t he? As far as fuck-ups go, his was pretty fucking colossal, and they all know about it.

He’s halfway to calm when someone knocks on the door and sets him off again.

They knock again. Jack is racking his brain trying to think of something to say that will make them go away, but he must have taken too long. The door is opening.

It’s only Shitty. 

“Hey, man” he says, taking in Jack’s position on the floor with his back to the closet and his head on his knees. He closes the door and sits down on the floor in front of it. “Noticed you sort of dip out, wanted to make sure you were okay.”

Reflexively, Jack says “I’m okay.” 

Shitty raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t call him out. Instead, he says, “Mind if I stay?” 

That, unexpectedly, moves Jack. He shakes his head.

It makes a lot of people uncomfortable, when he panics like this. They either act like nothing is wrong, or they don’t know what to do and ask too many questions or just stare at him or they get anxious too and it becomes a feedback loop. 

Shitty says, “Want some quiet?” 

Jack nods again, and Shitty stands, going about tidying his half of the room. Eventually, it’s clean, and he sits down on his bed and starts fucking around on his laptop. 

Eventually, Jack calms down. 

“Sorry,” he says. 

Shitty closes his laptop, shrugs. “It’s all good. Happens.” A moment of silence passes. “You want to talk about it?”

Jack shakes his head. 

“Okay. I don’t know what set you off in there, but we’re all sorry.”

Jack hates the panic evident in his voice when he asks, “Everyone noticed?”

“No, no, just me, and maybe Bitty. I’m just apologizing on behalf of whoever’s fault it was.”

“Oh. Okay.” 

The silence stretches while Jack thinks, turns words over in his head. 

“I didn’t realize,” he says finally, “That you all knew. About my dad.” 

Shitty winces. “Oh. Yeah, you can blame Chowder for that. He, Nursey, and Dex joined us a year or two later. Bob came by one day and the kid lost his mind. Well, he handled it with a surprising amount of grace and then he lost his mind after Bob left. But yeah. Told us we were renting from a old hockey legend.”

Jack nods. He already figured Chowder knew, so it’s less of a blow. “What about, uh, me,” he forces out. 

“Well, when your dad asked if you could stay the summer, he just said you could use,” Shitty holds up his hands and does air quotes, “‘Some time away with normal people his age’.” 

Jack cringes. 

“Which was very cryptic and somewhat ominous,” Shitty continues. “So we asked Chowder first, and he said you played in the junior league but didn’t get drafted and we’re all nosy motherfuckers so we, uh, googled you.”

“Oh,” Jack says. 

“Yeah.” Shitty says. “Sorry.”

“I’m used to it.”

“Still sucks. And is pretty fucked up, actually, childhood stardom, I mean, it’s fucked up that we idolize literal children and criticize them like we do adults, I could go on but now doesn’t seem like the time. Anyways. We read that you OD’d, couldn’t figure out on what though, and went to rehab for a while. And now you’re here. Also, after we found that out, I called your dad and told him we drink and smoke recreationally and this might not be an ideal place for a recovering addict but he said it shouldn’t be a problem, which is why we’ve been offering you drugs and alcohol, it’s also force of habit and we didn’t want to exclude you. Not our smartest move, though, I’ll admit.”

“It was prescription meds,” Jack cuts in. “For anxiety.”

“What?”

“That I overdosed on. Anxiety meds.” 

“Oh. Word. Thanks for telling me.” 

Jack nods, doesn’t meet his eyes. “I do drink, sometimes. Don’t smoke though, ‘cause I need healthy lungs for hockey.”

Shitty grins. “For that, you’re a smarter man than I, Zimmy boy.”

“Hey, also,” Jack says, “What’s with all the nicknames?”

“Oh. Well, I hate my real name. It’s a shitty name. Hence.” He pauses and looks over at Jack, who nods in understanding. “Everyone else’s is a play on their name, like Ransom’s last name is Olransi, and Chowder’s is Chow.”

“Oh. Uh, I meant, why do you all only go by nicknames? It’s very hockey of you.”

“Really? Nice. How sporty of us. But, I don’t know. We used to have this roommate, Johnson, who said it was so that we could call each other by our real names at pivotal moments, which sounds cool, whatever it means. We took over this lease from some other lifeguards, I assume they started it. Ransom and Holster come up with most of them.”

Jack nods and remains quiet.

“Yeah. So, you want me to leave you alone now?”

Jack abruptly remembers he’d been mid panic attack when Shitty had come in. Right. Everyone knows. 

Everyone knows. But they haven’t asked him about it, and probably won’t since they haven’t already, and they don’t walk on eggshells around him like his parents do. They leave him be, let him live. He hadn’t realized how suffocated he felt back at home. 

When Shitty gets up and heads back to the kitchen, Jack follows. 

. 

After his run the next morning, he doesn’t bother showering. Instead, he very thoroughly applies sunscreen, puts on his slides and a baseball cap and heads to the beach. He takes a chair this time, and sets up near the same spot as before. This early in the morning, the beach is mostly empty. More quiet. He can hear the ocean, the occasional pound of footsteps or quiet conversation as people run and walk by. 

It’s nice. 

The lifeguards go on shift around 10, and with them comes the crowds. Jack packs up not long after. 

The Haus feels empty with everyone gone to work. Jack goes out on the back deck, steels himself, and calls his agent. 

It’s not good news. It never is, hasn’t been since the overdose. But it’s not terrible. 

Right now, his only option is to train, keep in shape, and formally announce himself an unrestricted free agent when he’s ready. 

Which is apparently not now, not this season. 

Jack is worried that the longer he waits, the less likely it is that teams will take him. His agent agrees, but she also must be in league with his parents and his therapist, because she insists that this year is too soon for him. Deep down, Jack knows they’re right, knows he’s not back in the shape he was in before rehab. Knows he isn’t ready. But if not now, when? 

Next year, apparently, will be his year, according to Kelsey. 

He just has to train, ideally with professionals, maybe coach a bit. He has to train and work hard, prove he’s gotten even better since rehab, which will be hard to do if he can’t play any real games, but they’ll make it work. It has to work. 

Jack sets his phone on the railing and stares at it. He does his breathing exercises. He looks out at the ocean. He looks back at his phone, and hesitates. 

He calls his father, updates him. 

Then, he calls Kent. 

He isn’t expecting an answer, and fully intends to leave a voicemail.

When Kent picks up the phone, Jack almost hangs up. 

He didn’t fucking plan for this.

“Zimms? You there?” Kent says.

“Yeah, yeah. Sorry."

“You okay?” Kent says, rushed, and Jack wonders when he’ll be able to call Kent without those being the first words out of his mouth. 

“I’m fine.” 

“Oh. Good.”

“Listen, I know you’re mad, but you did say to call you after I talked to my agent.”

Kent’s voice brightens. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. It’s about what I expected, find people to train with for another year, maybe coach some, go free agent next spring.”

“Oh.” 

“Oh?”

“I thought you’d be doing it this year. The sooner the better, right?”

“Right. I guess. Well, not actually. My agent thinks I should wait another year.”

“Your agent does?”

“Yeah.”

“Just your agent.”

“What?”

“Not your parents? Not you?”

Kent sounds angry, and Jack feels thrown. “Well, all of us agreed-”

“But what about you? Don’t you want to play this year?”

“Yeah, Kenny, of course, but-”

“I can talk to my GM, they haven’t announced it yet, but they’re fucking making me captain, so I have some sway. Might not be a great contract, initially, but we could pull it off, and it’s not like you need the money, and you’ll prove you’re worth it, anyways, and-”

“Kenny, I don’t-”

“You said you wanted to play, right? You could play with me. I can make it happen. Let me-”

“Kent.” Kent stops talking. “I can’t.”

“Why not?” Kent challenges.

“I wouldn’t be - I’m not the same. I’m not in shape.”

“Bullshit. I know you. Just cause you haven’t been playing doesn’t mean you haven’t been working out like the world’s going to end.” Jack doesn’t answer. Kent continues, “Tell me I’m wrong.”

“I’ve been running, but that’s-” 

“Then you’re probably in better shape than half my team.” 

Jack doubts that. “It’s already decided. Not this year.”

“What, so you can’t change your mind? Not like anyone has officially announced anything, you could still-”

“No, I can’t.”

“Well why the fuck not, Jack? Why?” If he didn’t sound so angry, Jack would make fun of him for whining. And what the hell is he angry for, anyways, he _knew_ it was going to be like this, and all of a sudden Jack finds himself shouting back. 

“Because maybe I’m not fucking ready, Kent! Maybe I was eating shitty hospital food and didn’t have access to a gym or a rink for six months, and that was after they had to restart my heart and pump my stomach!” 

Kent is silent for almost a full minute. Maybe more. “They had to restart your heart?” he says eventually. 

Jack frowns. Fucking fuck. He thought Kent knew. 

“Yeah.” 

There’s another extended silence, and when Jack pulls his phone away from his ear to check the signal, Kent’s hung up. 

Fuck. 

Belatedly, he realizes Kent said he made captain. Jack calls him back and gets sent to voicemail. Instead, he sends a text, and does his breathing exercises, and doesn’t throw his phone out into the sand. 

He realizes he can hear music coming from inside. 

He pulls the screen door open and Bitty is in the kitchen, standing in front of what looks like a large bowl of dough. Bitty smiles at him. 

Jack says, “You’re home.” It sounds more accusatory then he intended.

Bitty winces. “Yes. I am home. I have off today. And before you say anything, I didn’t hear nothing. You were on the phone when I came down, and I didn’t want to interrupt, and then a while later when you started yelling I was in the middle of kneading and couldn’t just leave it and give you privacy so I turned on music. And sang to it. Lord, I hope you didn’t hear that part.”

“You didn’t hear anything?” Jack repeats.

Bitty shakes his head. “Cross my heart.” 

“I wasn’t yelling,” Jack frowns.

Bitty raises an eyebrow. “Sure.” 

Jack looks down. “Sorry.” 

“Me too. I didn’t mean to intrude.” 

Bitty continues doing whatever it is he’s doing with the dough, so Jack pulls the screen door closed again and goes to lay on the couch on the deck. It’s only just now getting a little too hot to be comfortably outdoors, but Jack doesn’t really want to walk past Bitty and get dragged into a conversation or apology, so he stays put. He already has sunscreen on, anyways. 

That night, after Jack has just gone to bed, Shitty pokes his head in their room. 

“Hey, Jack,” he whispers. “You still awake.” 

“Yeah, what’s up,” Jack says at normal volume. 

“Get your beautiful ass out of bed, we’re going on an adventure,” he whispers. 

“Oh, I’m okay.”

“Nonnegotiable, my sweet, we’re going.”

“Where?”

He’s still whispering loudly. “On an adventure. To the beach. To look at the stars and the moon and to contemplate the meaning of the universe.”

“Oh. Everyone?”

“Nah brah just you, me and Lardo,” Shitty says, giving up on whispering. “But come on, it’s a nice night, the sky is beautiful, and you don’t need to put on sunscreen and sweat your balls off.” 

It does sound nice.

“Okay. Fine. Let me find my shoes.”

“Hell yeah brother.”

Shitty and Lardo get high on the beach, and Jack lays beside them on the blanket looking up at the sky. It smells like weed and the ocean, and Jack finds he’s having fun. Lardo talks a bit more and Shitty talks a bit less when they’re high. 

“God, I love it here,” Shitty says, lying down next to Jack. 

“Do you love it here, or do you just hate home?” Lardo says. 

Shitty is quiet for a moment. “Both. But damn, Lards.”

“Sorry.” 

“No, you’re right. I do hate home. But I do love it here. I love my job and the beach and the ocean and the sunsets, and I love you guys. I love the weird tacky souvenir stores and the cute little colorful rich people houses.” 

“I do love the houses,” Lardo agrees.

“Yeah, the houses are nice,” Jack says. 

“I love it here, too,” Lardo says. “But sometimes I think I love it so much because I only get it some of the time, you know?”

“Mhm,” Shitty says. “The summer bubble.”

“Yeah,” Lardo sighs. 

“The summer bubble?” Jack says.

“Y’know how when you’re young, at least, summer is its own thing? A break? Where you get to go on vacation and do nothing and have fun? It’s like you’re living in a bubble outside of the real world. The summer bubble,” Lardo says. 

Jack hasn’t had a summer like that since he started high school, but he gets it. “It’s nice here,” he says. “Definitely bubbly.” 

“Bubbly town,” Shitty giggles. 

“I wish I knew constellations,” Lardo says.

“You should become one of those astrology people,” Shitty says. “But what if our signs aren’t compatible?”

“Then we’ll know astrology is garbage,” Lardo says easily. 

“You’re the Mercury to my retrograde,” Shitty says dramatically.

“Jack,” Lardo sits up and pulls out her phone. “What’s your horoscope?”

“I’m a Leo. I think.” 

After a moment of scrolling, she sits up and clears her throat, grinning. “You ready?”

Jack snorts. “I suppose.” 

“‘You are ready to embrace all things going on at the moment, as they come and go, following the flow of collective efforts, limitations and requirements.’ That mean anything to you?”

“Euh, no,” Jack says.

“Hey Jack,” Shitty says. “Can I ask you something personal?”

Jack’s knee jerk response is no. But he finds he trusts Shitty not to ask something too invasive, not to push it. He trusts Lardo, too, to give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe it’s the darkness and the not having to look them in the eye, but he finds himself thinking maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world for them to get to know him. 

“Sure,” Jack says. 

“Do you miss hockey?”

Jack doesn’t even have to think about it. “Like a limb.” 

“Huh,” Shitty says. “You love it that much?”

“I do.” 

“How do you know?”

Jack is quiet for a moment, thinking. “It’s easy. Well, it isn’t. I put a lot of work into it. And it makes me anxious sometimes. But other times, it comes easy. Like the easiest thing in the world. It just feels right, and I never want to stop.” 

“Like art,” Lardo says, and Jack raises his eyebrows in surprise. 

“Yeah,” Jack says. “Like art.” 

“Do you still want to go pro?” Lardo says quietly. 

“Yeah.” 

“Can you?” 

Jack pauses. “I don’t know,” he says honestly. 

They all fall silent. Lardo lies back down between him and Shitty, and shifts closer to Jack until their shoulders are pressed together. Shitty rolls onto his side and throws his arm over both of them. 

“Rough,” Lardo says, eyes on the sky.

“Yeah,” Jack says. 

“So maudlin,” Shitty complains. His voice grows serious. “But let us know if there’s anything we can help with.” 

Jack doubts there is, but it’s a nice thought. “Thanks.” 

“Can I ask you another question?” Shitty says, now with something mischievous in his voice. 

“Yeah?”

“Can you swim?” 

Lardo starts laughing. 

“Hey!” Jack says. “I can swim!”

“It’s a fair question, bro,” Lardo says between giggles. “You, like, didn’t know what sunscreen was.” 

“I can swim,” Jack says again, indignant. 

“Prove it. Not right now, obviously, the ocean at night is a mystical and dangerous void,” Shitty says. “But at some point.’ 

“I’ve never been in the ocean before,” Jack says, because it’s the truth, and because he imagines swimming in the ocean is a very different experience from swimming in a pool. 

“Dude,” Shitty sits up so he can look Jack in the eyes. He points his thumb at himself. “Lifeguard.” 

“Ah,” Jack says. “Yes.” 

Shitty points towards the house behind them. “Six more lifeguards.” 

“Yes, okay. I’m an idiot, I get it.” 

“It’s okay, we still love you,” Shitty says easily, lying back down. “We got your back, brah.” 

Jack finds himself smiling. “Thanks.”  
  



End file.
